


No one likes a Tattletale

by gebieterin



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Bad Puns, Betrayal, Intimidation, M/M, Torture, casual culling of side characters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-05
Updated: 2018-10-05
Packaged: 2019-07-25 14:44:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16199669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gebieterin/pseuds/gebieterin
Summary: Why ratting out your ex-kismesis out to the High Subjugglator in hindsight seems a really, really bad idea.





	No one likes a Tattletale

**Author's Note:**

> Once upon a time, there was an old HS kink meme for which I wrote some snippets. Recent re-obsession with Homestuck made me want to post these here. The original prompt was:  
>  _There is not enough Highblood/Dualscar in the world._
> 
> _Basically, I want the Highblood to suggest a D/s relationship to Dualscar. This is a suggestion that Dualscar doesn't particularly want to humour. So Highblood takes him by force and toys with him until he's begging for it. As punishment though, Highblood refuses to let Dualscar get off._
> 
> _Whether or not Highblood ends up fucking him senseless anyway is up to the filler._

You are Dualscar, also carrying the title of the "Orphaner", which in the beginning broke your heart (not that you would ever admit to it). Later, you saw it more as an opportunity to present the grief striken youngsters to your then-kismesis after having fed their lusi to Gl'bgolyb, Emissary to the Horrorterrors, of whom they spoke in more hushed tones as Speaker of the Vast Glub. Speak of responsible positions. Gog knows what the Marquise did to those then unshepherded and still so very impressionable young trolls. You never really wanted to ask.

When she was still your kismesis, the Marquise was always very creative in showing her gratefulness (of course without ever admitting to it). Ah, those were the days. Maybe you should really not have had her potential matesprit assassinated, but then again, her wooing a slave in this most red of ways did not exactly strike your fancy. Who would have thought that it would turn her against you so decidedly; she always had this collection of lovers for her redrom games.

However, being the law-abiding citizen that you are, you see it as your duty (now that she ended your kismessitude) to report her whereabouts to the highest of jurilexecutive authorities. Rather, the only authority apart from Her Imperial Condescence.

That this was not the best idea ever hatched in your mind became clear when the appointed guards, purpleblood subjugglators, just sneered at you when you demanded an audience with the Grand Highblood himself. Maybe you should not have culled the fucker who made a derisive comment. Who knew there would be more guards who for some reason did not take kindly to you culling one of their own and threatening the entire batch.

"What is the MEANING of THIS?!"

Well, at least you got the Grand Highblood's attention. Oh fuck.

 

That deep, droning voice makes something in your teeth reverberate in a way that stays just this side of a terrible headache.

You must have really been preoccupied by, well, defending your life, to have missed the the doors to the Head of Subjugglator's chamber slam open and their occupant casually pause in the doorway.

Of course, given your rank, you have seen the Grand Highblood before. Only from far away. Actually from very much farer away. Having this creature which more resembles a force of nature than an actual troll stare at you makes all your instincts scream to curl up and try to appear as small and unsuspicious and of course as inedible as possible. You get the distinct impression that even trying to notify His Honorable Tyranny himself would have been a better idea. At least with him, a swift death would have been granted. In hindsight not notifying anyone and just getting on with your life would have been the very best of ideas.

You are by no means of small stature yourself, but beside the Grand Highblood, every other troll would seem of slight built. The Capricorn towers overs you in a manner that reminds you much of the first time in your life you ever saw an adult troll, the day the young trolls who had managed somehow to survive till adulthood were drafted for serving the glory of the empire. You do not even think of using your weapon against him, but stand dumbstruck as he plucks your lightning rifle from your suddenly slack fingers.

Only to fire your own weapon at the first young subjugglator forward (or simply stupid) enough to actually raise his voice to answer the Grand Highblood's question without ever taking these burning eyes from you. From the corner of your eyes you can see the youngsters stunned expression as he falls, and the Grand Highblood bares his sharp teeth at you in grin full of dark mirth. Suddenly, you are very afraid. Or rather, even more afraid than mere moments ago.

The huge Capricorn casually indexes your rifle, an action which should normally have you boiling with (however impotent) rage, as this weapon is one of a kind, Ahab's Crosshair, an almost mythical item which, by legend, ensured to kill every white whale it was pointed at.  
Currently, however, that disabling fear overrides every other concern you might have had.

A large palm cradles your face, nearly covering more than half of your head and your breath hitches with a pathetic whine you sincerely hope was too high to register in the Grand Highblood's ears. Even more teeth shown as his smile widens impossibly prove you wrong as the other hand mirrors its twin.

Does he intend to simply crush your skull in these strong hands? You would like to close your eyes, but to your shame find that you cannot avert your gaze, eyes panically widened. 

A clawed thumb traces the lower of your eponymous two scars running from under your right eye across your face (a reminder never to underestimate a troll child's grieving rage when having lost its lusus).  
Instinctively, you try to draw your face away from the sharp claw, but the hands still holding you, almost tender in their embrace, do not even need to tighten much to anticipate your movement.

The thumb claw catches at the very edge of your scar, drawing blood which you feel trickle down your face wetly, almost like a tear.

"What a lovely shade of violet," the Grand Highblood murmurs.

The fact that the booming voice is even now, with a contemplative edge, is more terrifying than the fluctuations before.

The fact that the Grand Highblood, acclaimed artist of debatable taste for gathering his colours ("Any picture WILL BE THAT much more significant when the donor has been in EXCRUCIATING PAIN") expresses an interest in the colour of your blood lets your mind go blank with panic for a moment.

Somewhere in your mind it registeres that you held your breath when the Grand Highblood first reached for you and by now little stars are dancing in the dark swirls at the very edge of your vision. You might just faint. Which would probably be preferable than having you blood harvested for paint while still fully conscious.

It is the laughter that keeps you awake, you think, a low chuckling that rubs all your instincts in all the wrong ways. That, or the clawed hand that buries in your hair to keep you head from sagging while the other pats you cheek with a bit more force than absolutely necessary, urging you to draw a shuddering breath.

"Fucking MIRTH, sea dweller, you are supposed to be less susceptible to psychic attacks than the lowbloods, and you already give out under some common chucklevoodoos?"

Ha! Of course it was chucklevoodoos, there was absolutely no other reason you should be afraid... of the troll towering over you grinning like a maniac. Well scratch that. Even when you feel the fear that had gripped your mind like a vice lift like fog and no longer renders you completely unable to any other reaction than panicked stares, there is still enough left of it. Which, however, cannot stem from the High Subjugglator's powers anymore, because you hear from the remaining guards a collective sigh of relief that tells you that you were not the only one affected by the Grand Highbloods psychic powers.

However, his words remind you. You are a proud sea dweller, very near the top of the hemospectrum and you will not cower in fear before one who is below you! Or maybe you can at least keep your legs from giving out under you.

The Grand Highblood sighs and shakes his head.  
"Kids these days. Can't even take a little EXISTENTIAL DESPAIR."

You have no idea whether he refers to you or to his underlings. Most likely both.

"Now then, what to do with this LITTEL FISH? FRY it or TOSS is back into the water?"

You would take offence in the 'little fish' comment, if not the claw hooked under your chin, forcing your head up to bare your throat had already made his opinion of your standing very clear. And you LET him, still not putting up any fight. Somehow, that makes you more angry than his presumably thoughtless cruelty. Not like anyone saw you, except for the remaining guards, who were clever enough to pretend to be just furniture, seemingly used to their superior handling similar situations (or maybe just scared shitless to end up like their comrade). 

The omission of the worst fear makes you brash, as normal levels of fear normally tend to. Some would even say reckless.

"I came here to demand an audience."

You are so proud that your voice does not shake too much and you manage to keep your timbre from squeaking.  
"Will I be allowed to bring forward my concerns, which may or may not have impact on the safety of the empire?"  
Words well rehersed, brought forward with all the pride you dared.

Only to be met with booming laughter, while one heavy arm loops around your shoulders in a seemingly amicable gesture, only put in perspective again by the claws threateningly drumming at the side of your throat now. That troll has a serious thing for throats, you think. Maybe he just realizes the threatening effect it will have on most.

The laughter eases, and the Grand Highblood suprises you by motioning into the Head of Subjugglator's chamber and hauling you inside with a push to the back of your neck which makes you stumble inside and nearly sends you to your knees. You are absurdly proud that you manage to keep on your feet.

The Grand Highblood still stands in the doorway, giving orders to the guards to clean THE FUCK up and that there will be no more slaughtertainment for them tonight.

You are not sure whether to be relieved or fear that he just wants put the laughter in the slaughter more privately.

You half expect the doors to slam shut as violently as they were slammed open mere moments ago. Yet the Grand Highblood closes the two wings of the door with deliberate care, while your brain registers the fact that you could have never reached both wings at once.

He moves past you purposefully, yet strangely silent, still you cannot miss the amused huff he makes as he brushes past you and you flinch violenty back when only the very tips of his hair brush your chin.

Reluctantly, you have to admire the stealth he moves with now, a fluidity about him that somehow seems to contrast with is very presence. 

Like most sea dwellers, you have been graced with a lean swimmer's body. What you might lack in strength compared to land dwellers near you on the hemospectrum, most of the time you can make up in speed and grace, and sheer maliciousness. Yet you doubt that this troll will ever be as clumsy as you would have first assumed given his massive frame.


End file.
